New Life
by luffyduffy
Summary: Edward has a cramped apartment, keeps a pointless string of women and lives a lifestyle he hates. Though an unexpected meeting and a very odd job could be the beginning of a new life, hopefully brimming with opportunities and fantastic sex.
1. Chapter 1

**EPOV**

A xylophone plays somewhere in the recesses of my mind and I don't understand why the fuck it's doing that or what the song is but it's driving me batshit. I punch my pillow with considerable force in a lame attempt to get rid of the irritating music but it doesn't work. The music only gets louder and faster and fuck me dead I would give my own mother for some aspirin.

Some chick lies next to me and sue me but I don't know who she is and that shits me hard. I had vowed like a fucking week ago that I wouldn't do this shit any more but apparently my bitch of a subconscious doesn't understand the meaning of _no more goddamn meaningless sex. _Well, I can't really blame it, but fuck. This shit has some serious repercussions sometimes. A while ago I had to get treated for the clap, which was the beginning of my whole I-swear-to-god-I'm-stopping-this-shit oath. So, quite understandably in my opinion, I'm pissed that I did this crap again. I don't even remember if I used a condom or not, though the jelly-fish like piece of latex lying on my carpet reassures me. It hits me that I'll need to clean that up, as well as the drops of semen spattered around it like some kid's finger-painting, resulting in a rambunctious "fuck" from yours truly.

Unfortunately this wakes up the mystery blonde next to me, who rolls over and scrapes her too-long blood-red nails against my chest with a murmured, "hey baby." Let me get this straight, I'm no one's fucking baby, but I don't say anything to her because of the headache pounding in my skull like a goddamn wrecking ball.

Slowly and carefully I roll out of my bed, miscalculating the distance and ending up with my ass on the dirty carpet. Fuck. I hear the blonde giggle and give her a dirty look, mentally, since in reality I can't manage shit before I get some coffee and help me god if I don't find some aspirin.

Clothes lie randomly around the room, a shirt on the lamp, some pants on my leather chair, a thong on my ceiling fan which leaves me with a huge question mark in the back of my mind. The blonde takes her cue from me and gets up, stretching lazily, perfect tits bouncing slightly as she gets up and opens the blinds. Shit, that light is like a laser right to the eyes. Mine narrow into slits and I hurry out of the room, feeling like a fucking vampire. It's a shame though, 'cause those tits kind of got my dick hardening. _Down boy._

Eventually shit progresses – the headache subsides with some heaven pills, coffee gets digested, blonde gets kicked out offensively but I don't particularly give a shit. I don't belong in her world – well, I still do, but fuck me I am trying my best to get out. Well, I was, before last night. I still have no idea what happened, so I call my brother, who always knows what the fuck goes on with everyone.

"Sup boy-o?" Emmett says to me when he answers his cell, cheerful even after what seems like a long night of drinking and sex. I'll never get that guy, though I thank Jesus for him everyday. He has saved my ass so many times, I stopped counting when I was 15, vomiting in the bushes outside our house while he held my hair patiently.

I hold the cell in between my ear and shoulder as I pat around for my cigarettes. I know exactly where they are, but the pat is all part of the process. I light one up and take a drag, watching the smoke billow out like a faery's fart.

"So I wake up, monster headache, really hot piece of ass lying next to me, confused as fuck. Start talking," I eventually reply, harsher than needed but I just want to know what the hell went on. I stare at the grime on my walls and grimace. The dirt, in my opinion, gives the place character, though once in a while I wish for a clean place. Actually, I can't really call it a 'place'. More like just some walls stuck together with a carpet that's akin to the fur of a sewer-rat, situated in the asshole of the world, New York. Yeah, I'm not bitter at all.

"How the fuck can't you remember man?" he asks, laughing. "It was the best night ever dude. Clubs, booze, women. Hell we had about five hanging around us, three of them went off with Jazz, can you believe it?" he cackled at our middle brother's luck. "Lucky bastard. But I got one, you got one, everyone won in my opinion."

I rub my palm over my face roughly, frustrated. Em's the best guy I know, but he doesn't get why I want out of this lifestyle. "Thanks Em," I hang up without a goodbye, but I doubt it fazes my brother. Nothing ever does.

I pace up and down my filthy apartment, glaring out the windows at times to see all the people rushing, always rushing, like ants gathering food to feed their little fucking ant queen. Peons, all of them. Slaving away for some money that they could lose in the blink of an eye, money that'll only buy them an average house, maybe a picket fence and some toys for their mini-peons, who'll grow up to do the same pointless shit they do.

Fuck. I decide that the only way to cure my raging hangover at this point in time is some more alcohol, which I find in one of my dusty cabinets in my semblance of a kitchen. Swigging the whisky and staring pensively at a burn mark on my carpet, I try to decide what the fuck to do with my life.

I work in construction, one of the minions to Queen Bee America. I hate it, I hate my apartment, I hate all my content friends who don't dream of anything bigger then a beer at some pub around the corner. Fuck, the world has so many riches to plunder and those guys don't know squat about it, or even want to know, which is worse in my opinion. Someday, I vow to myself viciously. Someday I'll get out of this shithole and make something of myself.

The goblin statue on my coffee table winks at me slyly and I shove it onto the ground, breaking it's nose in the process. Well, it was too perfect anyway. Noseless, it looks more realistic to me, more like something that can exist in this world of fucking imperfections and ridiculously misplaced righteousness.

But philosophy is for the rich, which I am not, and am reminded of constantly by my shitty furniture, shitty job and shitty life.

I don't want to get too depressed about shit I can't do a whole lot about, so I attempt to push the thoughts of unsuccessfulness out of my mind and for the most part, I succeed, ironically. I jump off the ground, grab my leather jacket and bound out of my apartment, which is only a tiny wart on the massive asshole that is Manhattan. Going down stairs is a simple task when you've got legs like ugly skyscrapers, so it takes me no time at all. Unfortunately, the momentum from the stairs has got me going so fast that I knock the woman about to go up them flat on her ass, spilling all the shit she had in her grasp in the process.

This situation isn't all shits and giggles though, because I get knocked down too. My head gets whacked on the stupid peeling floor quite fucking badly, I take my hat off to it. The headache's now back in full force. Seems like it'll be here for a while, so I'll give it a name. Doug.

I sit up with my palms behind my back, dazed a little. Were those stars? Fuck me.

I turn my head to the chick, who's picking up all of the assorted crap she was holding before – tubes of paint, cans of it, brushes, some sort of glittery shit and twigs. In my semi-drunk state all I can think is that she's making a type of nest and decorating it for a bird-goddess who's going to stay with her for some stupid reason. But who cares, she looks fucking adorable. Blushing like crazy, some spattered paint on one cheek and a little in her hair, which is up in a messy brown bun. Her deep mocha eyes are working overdrive trying to see if she has missed anything, before they lift up to mine and encompass me in their warmth, tinted with frustration and embarrassment.

To me, she's like a mystical nymph, come to sex me out of whatever haze I've been in for the last few years.


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh shit," she murmurs quietly, the movement of her mouth distracting me from her mesmerising eyes. Said eyes dart back to the floor and see the stray tube of paint lying there, allowing me to stare at her almost unnoticed while she picks up the tube. I want to suck on the ring through her lip, to untie her hair and feel it cascading through my grubby and cigarette-stained hands.

Of course, I don't even know her name. You're heading straight into the _goddamn meaningless sex zone,_I scold myself. I avert my gaze to the filthy floor as I lift myself off of it with my palms, staring down at the girl who wont be able to get up due to the amount of things in her arms. Guess I'll have to be all chivalrous and shit.

I grab her by the hips and lift her up like she doesn't weigh anything, which she fucking doesn't. _Does this girl eat?_

Unfortunately, my crotch comes into contact with hers, and hello, my stupid cock springs to life almost instantly. I quickly stand back so she cant feel it, because that would probably come off creepy and shit. I look back to her fucking cute face to see an adorable blush consuming it, not just her cheeks, which is what usually happens. No, this girl is something else. Everything is red – her cheeks, chin, neck, even her forehead. So fucking cute.

"Uh, t-thanks," she stutters, not bringing her eyes up to mine. She clutches her crap to her chest and looks like she viciously longs to be a bird, so she could fly away and get the fuck away from me. This saddens me and I hope she's just nervous and its not because I repulse her.

"You're welcome," I reply, in my best I'm-a-nice-guy voice. She looks up at me and I am once again surrounded in the pure _brown_ness of her eyes.

Her liquid eyes seem to harden for a moment and a stubborn arch graces her brow. "I'm Bella," she tells me, holding her small hand out for me to shake it, which I do, while getting a tad confused. I didn't know girls shook hands with guys, but, whatever, it was cute. Probably should look up some synonyms sometime.

She withdraws her hand first and mine mourns the loss of contact. _Bella_'s still eyes were on mine though and it's making my cock twitch. She still looks like she was ready to bolt though which I want to remedy immediately, I want her to be comfortable around me. Not that I'm planning for us to be together in the future... Much... _Shut up stupid sabotaging subconscious. _Now that's some nice alliteration.

"Well, I'm heading up, see ya," she murmurs, glancing up at me through her thick mascara-ed eyelashes.

"Wait," I didn't want her to go. My dick didn't want her to go. Let us just conclude she should be with me always. What is wrong with me? "Want to grab some coffee?" _Smooth_

"Uh," she replies, shifting her balance from foot to foot, looking disconcerted. "Maybe another time."

Before I can think of the knife lying somewhere in my kitchen which I could use to slit my wrists, Bella flashes me a small, very, _very _cute smile, showing a hint of white teeth. "Seriously, I have a friend coming over and I can't ditch her," she adds.

"Alright then," I tell her, trying to come off all cool and indifferent. She doesn't make any further comment and proceeds to walk up the barely-carpeted stairs. I try not to stare at her ass as she goes up but, of course, fail miserably. Well, it is a nice ass.

She's gone and the loss of her presence is a jackhammer straight to the cock, not to be melodramatic, but I'm now completely flaccid and it's sad.

So, before The-Nymph-Called-Bella came crashing into me, the plan was to go to Carlisle's, a small cafe a few blocks from my place with a funky Italian guy called, you guessed it, Carlisle, owning and managing it. I always hound him about good work, though he rarely delivers. But it is a Saturday and I've got shit-all else to do, other than sulk at Bella not being in my bed, so I still think it's a good plan and begin the short walk to the cafe.

I pass random homeless people on the street everyday and my heart always bleeds for them. No matter how much of a hardass I am something about them always gets me. Whether it be the look of complete surrender some of them have, or the glares of frenzied desperation, or the intense anger some of them bear at their situation, I hate all of it and feel such empathy for them for experiencing it. Yeah, I'm all sensitive and shit.

Walking into Carlisle's is a dramatic thing – he's a got all of these hot Espanola's working for him with huge tits and short skirts, who just love to shriek in that aggressive lingo of theirs about how long its been since they've seen you or how they cant believe you haven't noticed their new hair, or shoes, or stupid shit that guys obviously never see. It's pretty fun, but can get a little irritating with a fierce hangover. I did once have a thing with one of them though, Maria, a tiger in the sack but a witch outside of it. That does still haunt me sometimes, considering she is definitely the type to hold a knife over her ex's balls in the middle of the night in retribution.

So this time is no different, and it's especially vigorous since I'm a regular and am obvious friends with the man in charge. I get hugs and kisses and usually the big man downstairs would be in utter joy, but after seeing Bella, his standards seems to have become higher. I dont blame him in the slightest.

Carlisle's entertaining one of the guests with his impression of one of Obama's speeches, all mock-inspirational-like. It's especially stupid watching it since he's Italian, with an intense accent too, but that makes it all the more funny. Once he sees me though he makes a quick apology and runs over me, near-shouting "Bonjourno, Bonjourno," in the din of the cafe. It's always pretty crowded, something that occasionally shits me since I'm more comfortable with less people. But whatever, I'll suffer it for Carlisle.

"My friend, my friend, why so glum?" He asks me, tilting my chin up to look into his eyes like he usually does. I dont know how, but this guy is rigidly hetero. "Was it one of them senoritas you always got hanging around?"

Wise guy, that Carlisle. I nod and proceed to my usual table, asking one of the waitresses politely for a plain black coffee. I order one every time without fail, just to piss off Carlisle, whose attitude towards coffee is "if it's not extravagant, comrade, it does not count." Whenever someone gets one of those, skim latte, one shot of whipped cream, with half mocha, or some shit like that, he just eats it up. Weird dude.

He personally serves me my coffee and sits down with me, and I ask my usual question.

"Got a job, little man?" He's Italian. Of course he's going to be short.

"Perhaps I may," he replies, shocking the shit out of me. This is the first time this has been his answer in months, and he's even got a gleam in his eye, signalling that its a good one.

"How do you feel about being a hit man?"


End file.
